Wishes
by TolkienGirl
Summary: Dean's turning eleven…11, two one's in a row, which is pretty special. Even though Dean is normally miles above the things Sam likes, everyone likes cake. Well, except for Dad, maybe.But if Dean wants a cake, Sam's going to make sure he has one. Birthday Wee!Chester fic, with some Season 1. Rating for mild language. Pure brotherly feels and fluff, NO SLASH. For bhoney.


**A/N: Ok, so this about as fluffy as it's going to get. Wee!Chesters and Season One!Chesters, with far less angst than usual. I was holding myself back. =) This is for bhoney, who is awesome—both as a writer and a reader, who requested some happier brotherly feels. Hope you like it! =)**

**Shout-out to RainbowBetty, who wrote "Betty Friggin' Crocker"—it was a part of the subconscious inspiration for this. **

**Review, please! =)**

**Disclaimer: not mine.**

_1990_

The idea first comes to him on a Thursday.

Sam has been counting down the days as best he can, though the way the calendar has all the numbers in bars and boxes is a little confusing. Dean says they're called weeks, and that there are seven days in a week.

All Sam knows—all he needs to know—is that there are four more boxes, four more numbers, until Dean's birthday.

Not a lot of time.

On Thursday, Dad comes home in time for dinner. It isn't a happy dinner, though. There's a few angry scratches on the side of his face, and they look like they hurt. But Sam knows better (this time) than to offer him a bandaid.

Dean makes dinner swiftly and silently, with none of his usual grumbling. Sam bets that Dean has no idea, but he can tell when his older brother is worried…his shoulders hunch up a bit and his eyes follow Dad's every move.

Still, Sam has to bring it up. "Dean's birthday is soon," he announces. He wants to say _four boxes_, but somehow that doesn't sound right.

Dad looks startled, then a little mad, then just tired. "Yeah."

Dean doesn't say anything. Sam isn't sure why; he loves talking about _his_ birthday, and hoped that Dean would too, but then, Dean is the big brother. Maybe he doesn't want Sam to be jealous.

Dad's fallen silent again, but Sam presses on. "We should have a cake."

There's a pause. Sam likes cake. But a frown is forming between Dad's eyebrows. Maybe he doesn't like cake.

His dad twirls his fork through his food for a moment without saying anything. Still, Sam sees that Dean has stopped short, and he's got a look that's a little hopeful on his face.

Then—

"No," says Dad.

The light in Dean's eyes goes right out.

Sam knows that he should probably not push it, but it's not fair, not fair to _Dean._

"Dad…" he experiments with a little hint of a pleading whine, but it does absolutely nothing.

"Sam, I said no." Dad rubs a hand over his face. "I'm busy, at the moment, and we don't have time for parties or extra expenses."

There's a warning note in his voice that even Sam knows means _"Stop_," but he probably (definitely) would have continued if he hadn't seen Dean shake his head, quickly, tightly.

Sam shuts up.

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He can't fall asleep that night. The cracked blinds of the bedroom window—this is a new house for them, but Sam knows it isn't new at all, really—make strange patterns on the floor. Sometimes Sam is scared of them. The long, crooked slat that's half-snapped off looks like a monster's tooth in the peculiar shades of moonlight.

But tonight he isn't scared. He's still thinking about the cake.

"Dean." A whisper at first, and then more of a hiss. _"Dean!_"

There's a muffled sound from the other bed that sounds kind of like a cuss word. Dean has taken up swearing lately, but only when Dad isn't around.

Unperturbed, Sam continues. "Dean!"

"What?" Dean reaches out and tugs at the chain pull on the bedside lamp that hovers over the nightstand between them. He flicks it on and blinks blearily at Sam. "You have a nightmare or somethin'?"

Sam scoots up to a sitting position at this, very much On His Dignity. "_No._"

"Then what? Dude, it's like eleven-thirty. I'm tired."

Well then. Best to get right to the point. "Dean—"

"Sammy. You've said my name four times in the past thirty seconds."

"Your birthday. It's…it's four boxes…"

"The _hell?_" Dean demands groggily.

"On the _calendar_," Sam explains. "It's four boxes away."

"Oh."

Sam picks at his quilt. "Um…do you…don't you want a cake?"

Dean pulls the blanket over his head at this. This means he Doesn't Want To Talk. Sam knows this well…it happens every time Sam asks about homes. Families. Moms. And cake, apparently. "Sam, shut up and go to sleep. I don't care about a freaking cake."

His hand reaches out from beneath the coverlet and tugs once, hard, at the lamp.

The darkness folds in around them again.

Sam blinks at the ceiling. Ordinarily, he'd feel hurt by Dean's tone, but he still thinks that Dean is disappointed, too. After all, he's turning _eleven…11, _two one's in a row, which is pretty special. Even though Dean is normally miles above the things Sam likes, _everyone _likes cake.

Well, except for Dad, maybe.

But if Dean wants a cake, Sam's going to make sure he has one.

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Cakes need flour. Sam knows this because Mrs. McCutcheon from first grade told him so. But there's no flour in the musty cupboards at the new (not-new) house, and Sam wouldn't know what to do with it if there was some.

He keeps an eye for a better plan. It's Friday, and that means music class.

Sam loves music class. But Mr. Anderson is kind of thin and bothered, with the threads at the edge of his sweater cuffs fraying, and sometimes he forgets to ask for everyone's names.

Sam takes a risk.

With a regretful glance back at Room 009, he sneaks out the backdoor by the gym and heads to the general store in town.

There's rows and rows of soda and peanut M & Ms, and Sam feels his mouth water. Winchester lunches aren't always very filling. He drags his eyes away from the candy aisle and moves towards the boxed goods.

There. Pictures of gooey chocolate cake, with words that Sam carefully spells out, moving his finger across the letters.

_B-e-t-t-y C-r-o-c-k-e-r C-h-o-c-o-l-a-t-e C-a-k-e M-i-x._

_Yahtzee_, as Dean would say.

"Young man, why aren't you in school?"

Sam stiffens, jumps, and turns.

Old Mrs. Wilde from around the corner is fixing on eye on him that can only be described as beady. Sam and Dean don't usually know the neighbors' names, but Mrs. Wilde has yelled at them twice for cutting across her lawn. 'Course, that just makes Dean do it more stealthily,

Dean doesn't like to be told what to do, except by Dad.

Maybe he doesn't like it even then, but he just shuts up about it.

He pulls himself from his reverie and faces up to Mrs. Wilde. She's wagging a finger in his face, just like the old ladies in movies. Boy, it's a good thing Dean isn't here.

"Um…" he pauses and then puts on his Innocent Face…the one that works on just about everyone but Dad. Dean can see through it, sure, but it works on him just the same. "The nurse sent me home sick, but Daddy sent me here to pick up some aspirin."

"He wouldn't get it for his sick child?"

"He's sick, too. _Sicker._" Sam dials up the innocence and adds a hesitant dimple.

Mrs. Wilde cracks, just a bit, and her eyes turn a sheen less beady. "Alrighty. Get your little butt home."

"Yes ma'am." He gives the cake mix one more appraising glance—it's _$2.75…_that means two bills with the George Washboard guy on it, and three Big Silvers (they're called quarters, he remembers, when they're not being Pirate Treasure).

Sam hightails it back to school before Dean slouches out of his last class, and is sitting primly on the bench, hiding a calculating thought-stream behind a serene expression, when his brother approaches.

At least he thought it was serene.

Dean cocks an eyebrow. "Sammy? You're wound up like a spring."

"I'm fine." He sorts through his mind for the big word Mr. Randolph used the other day. "Just…pensive."

Dean regards him with weary disbelief. "Dude, you're six."

Sam hops off the bench. "And a _half_!" _And going to make you a cake,_ he adds inwardly. It's hard to keep the smile off his face.

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The smile isn't so forthcoming on Saturday. Dean's birthday is two boxes away on the calendar, and Sam has no cake mix. He sorts through his piggybank (Dean got it for him, somewhere, somehow, last Christmas) and finds that he has thirty-seven copper doubloons.

Only he thinks they're called pennies.

Desperate measures are called for.

Sam wins two nickels at marbles, a dollar for his Darth Vader trading card…that hurts…and manages to scrounge up a bit more.

One dollar and seventy-five cents. He's still a whole dollar short.

There is only one thing to be done.

He rings her doorbell with his eyes scrunched up tight, trying to talk himself through it. _You can wash it off afterwards._

She doesn't even come to the door; her mom does. A too pretty lady with a powdered face. "Hi there, sweetie…"

"I'm Sam," he says, trying to sound manly. He prob'ly just sounds _lame_. Lame, lame, lame. He can hear Dean chanting it now. But he bets Dean wouldn't say it if he knew what this was for. "I go to school with Marcie. Is she home?"

"Sam!" The high-pitched squeal affirms his worst fears. A hurricane of blond curls and pink sparkles hurtles towards him, grabs him by the hand. "Sam's my _boyfren',_" she announces gleefully. "C'mon, Sam."

Marcie's mom smiles indulgently and heads back towards the kitchen. Miserably, resolutely, Sam jams his hands in his pocket, freeing himself from Marcie's grip. "I'll do it," he says. Squeaks, really, but…he's _trying_. "If you give me that dollar, I'll kiss you."

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"Sammy, where were you?" Dean's mad, and Sam knows why—if he goes missing on Dean's watch, there's no brooking the paternal wrath.

"Out," he says. His face is red from all the scrubbing he's been doing for the past half-hour.

Dean swears under his breath and shoots him a fierce glare before stumping off to their room.

Sam swallows hard, trying to keep down the lump in his throat. This cake business is a lot harder than he'd thought it would be. Still, it affords him some comfort that there is a cherished, hard-earned box of chocolate cake mix hidden under his mattress.

Tomorrow, he'll bake.

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For the first time, Sam's glad that Dad is away. When night comes, he pinches himself to stay awake, until he can hear the steady rise and fall of Dean's breathing.

The stairs creak something awful, but Sam makes it to the kitchen safely, cake mix in hand. He debates whether or not to turn on the light, but he figures that baking won't go so well in the dark.

The lettering on the back of the box is small and kind of hard to read, but at least there are pictures.

The cake mix falls out of its bag into the bowl with a soft _floof,_ tiny chocolate-colored particles floating up and making Sam want to sneeze. He holds it back for a few painful seconds and sighs with relief.

Next, two eggs. Sam knows that eggs are fragile—he and Dean have broken enough—and he's worried that the stirring will crack them and make it all gooey.

What are the eggs for anyway? They're yellow and white. Chocolate is _brown_.

Still, the box seems to know best.

Sam has an idea. He gets out the rubber-handled frying pan (it's the closest thing he has to a round) and puts the eggs carefully in the middle. They wobble around a bit with a funny, roly-poly noise, but at least they're not breaking.

Next is oil. Sam's at a loss. It sure doesn't mean car oil—he's not _stupid_—but that's the only oil in the house.

_Or is it_. He fishes around in one of the cupboards for a few moments until—_aha!_

The little silver bottle says _c-h-r-i-s-m_ on the front. Chrism. It's a funny word that Sam isn't sure how to say, but he knows it's oil because Dean said it was. "Just oil," he'd said, strangely tense. He gets that way when Sam asks questions about the Guns And Things in the trunk of the car.

Sam smells it. It's little sweet but it doesn't seem dangerous. It isn't a gun, at least.

He pours enough oil into the powder to make it sticky, and does the same with some water from the tap.

He tests it with a careful (clean) finger and grimaces. It doesn't taste so good. _Of course not, silly. That's why they cook it._

It's almost midnight when Sam is done stirring, and he scoops it carefully into the pan, making sure that the eggs don't break. They look funny, two bumps poking up in the middle, and Sam has a sneaking suspicion that he may not have done this right.

He puts the frying pan in the oven and turns it to five.

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Dean wakes to the smell of burning rubber. It only takes him one glance at the rumpled—_empty—_bed on the other side of the nightstand for his insides to clench up.

_Burning._

_"Take your brother outside, now…"_

He doesn't think twice. Pounds downstairs, each footstep no louder than his heart. How could he not have woken up? Sammy's gone—maybe dead—

The smell of burning thickens in his nostrils.

He slams the door of the kitchen open and stops short. There is smoke coming out of the stove (?) and Sam is sitting on one of the kitchen chairs staring at it, with his knees hunched up to his chin and a _very_ worriedexpression.

Dean swears. Maybe his babysitter of two years ago had been right when she'd warned him that it would become a habit. "Sammy, what the _hell_?"

Sam's wide eyes are stricken. "Dean, I don't know how to get it out."

"Get what out?" Dean glances around apprehensively. He's probably being paranoid, but it _could_ be a poltergeist.

"In there," Sam whispers melodramatically, pointing one small finger towards the oven. "I can't reach the oven mitts."

_Oven mitts?_ Sometimes Dean thinks this kid is really crazy. "Uh…Ok." _Probably not a poltergeist._ Still, he's not prepared for the burst of acrid smoke that fills the air when he pulls open the door of the oven. He grabs whatever's in there and it sticks to the oven mitt…gummy and hot. Rubber. Well, that's what the smell's from.

With the stove switched off and the smoking pan on the stovetop, Dean has time to assess the situation. It's the rubber handled frying pan. With…something in it. "Sam," he says, very slowly and steadily…it's the voice Dad uses to pretty much ask, _WHAT IS GOING ON HERE…_but real soft and deadly, so that you know you are in a _crapload_ of trouble. "What is this?"

Sam presses both hands up into his floppy bangs and fixes an anguished gaze on his brother. "It's…it's s'posed to be your cake."

Dean stops short, then. It's like he's forgotten how to speak. He didn't—he doesn't—he only knows then that he _was_ disappointed by Dad's out-of-hand dismissal of his birthday even if he had been strangely grateful that that meant no memories of Mom. But this—he _had_ wanted something, _anything_ to make him feel wanted. Loved. _Remembered_.

And here was his kid brother, as brilliant and stupid as always, making him some sort of concoction that didn't resemble a cake at all, much less something edible.

But it's enough.

Dean eats it.

Not all of it, because it's horrible, and burned, and there's freaking _raw eggs_ just hanging out in the middle, but he shovels down a few bites because Sam did this for him.

It's the happiest birthday he remembers.

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_2006_

It's snowing. At least, it's snowing in Montana, and that's where they are…and it may be January, but Sam's already tired of winter. Sure, the white stuff is great and all, but he's seen a lot of it for the past three hundred miles.

Dean's a little quieter than usual. Sam spends a few idle moments wondering why…but any possible reasons for discontent (no hot waitresses for the past few diners, not enough onions on his last cheeseburger) would likely be cause for grumbling, not silence.

Then he remembers.

"Dude!"

"Dude!" Dean shoots him a sideways glance, parodying the exuberance of his exclamation. "What?"

"It's _January_ _twenty-third_."

"Yah."

"You're turning twenty-seven tomorrow!"

Dean rolls his eyes with an exaggerated sigh. "Yes. Birthdays. Yay. Your point, Sam?"

Something's holding his brother back…probably memories. Maybe the fact that for their last few birthdays, Sam was…gone. With a twinge he recalls that he didn't even phone home for Dean's twenty-sixth. Or his twenty-fifth. Or…

He sorts back through his memories, trying to find some sort of peace offering. A half-smile slips over his face. "We should stop off and get some cake mix, man. Betty Crocker chocolate."

It works. Dean snorts derisively, but he's smiling—_really_ smiling—for the first time in a couple hundred miles. "Yeah, yeah, Julia Roberts."

"I think you mean Julia Child."

"Probably. Whatever." Dean runs a hand through his hair, remembering. "Didn't you put chrism in that thing?"

"Guilty as charged."

"You were always such an idiot." It's said fondly.

"I was six."

"Wish I could say you'd gotten smarter with age."

It's Sam's turn to roll his eyes. "I didn't think you'd remember that cake."

"You still calling it a cake? Of course I remember it! It's a reminder to never let you near an oven again!" Dean grins. "Man, Dad was _so_ pissed about that frying pan."

Sam can imagine, though he hadn't had to hear the rant. Dean had taken the blame, and Sam, being six, had let him. Maybe some things were better left to memory. He shifted, feeling slightly remorseful. "Dude, I'm sorry…"

Dean's sharp eyes fix on him. "Sammy, I said Dad was pissed. I didn't say I cared."

Sam feels a warm surge of happiness flare up inside him. "So…it was worth it? Worth a Dad-rant and a ruined pan?"

Dean doesn't answer for a moment. Then, softly, "Yeah, it was."

Then he reaches over and turns Zeppelin up _really_ loud and Sam knows that that is all he's getting out of him. But that's all he needs.

Next junction, so help him, he'll find a general store, a toaster oven, and a chocolate cake mix. Sam's baking.


End file.
